


The Medium

by J_Antebellum



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: AU Cormoran is a medium, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-24
Packaged: 2021-03-26 18:14:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30110025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/J_Antebellum/pseuds/J_Antebellum
Summary: Cormoran Strike is a Medium who tries to live a normal life in London while working as a private investigator. However, his dreams keep showing him a beautiful strawberry-blonde woman who keeps calling for his help.
Relationships: Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike
Comments: 10
Kudos: 10





	1. It all began with a bang

**PART 1**

**Chapter 1: It all began with a bang.**

Not for the first time, Cormoran Strike found himself in a Viking military vehicle, chatting with Richard Anstis, Brian Topley and Wren Adams, himself the sergeant and higher ranked of them all, as they rode in the back, through the Afghan roads. Then he felt the hunch of death, heard his mother’s clear voice in his ears:

“Bomb!”

Strike shoot to his feet, grabbing Anstis as he was showing baby pictures of the newborn that awaited him at home, and while he shouted at the driver to brake, at the top of his lungs, he threw Anstis and himself to the far back, grabbing him with one hand, and the submachine gun he’d been equipped with, with the other.

It was the desert, hot and warm, yet this was different. It was more cloudy, with an aura of a dream, a mist in the air, and Strike could now do nothing but stare at the blood pouring from below his right knee, the rest of his leg gone, as he lied on the ground, weapon gone. He looked in the far distance, and saw a tall, beautiful, strawberry blonde woman with blue-grey eyes, curvaceous body, and clothes that belonged to the big city and not to here, the arid middle of nowhere. She was staring at him, standing between bleeding bits of bodies, by the remains in flames of the Viking, as if nothing was going on.

Strike tried to speak, but he felt weak and faint, unable to speak. Then the woman was grabbed from behind and a blade pressed against her throat. She could only scream.

“Help me!”

Suddenly Strike jerked awake, breathing heavy as he sat up in bed, drenched in sweat by the recurrent nightmare. Now, he was not in the arid Afghanistan, but in a very different environment. Here was the Herberts’ neat and tidy guest room, the comfortable double bed with the duvet, the heating on, the pristine soft beige walls, the rain ricocheting against the window, and the door in front of him, ajar. A little girl peeked, holding the edge of the door with chubby fingers, her mother’s blue-green eyes with her father’s almond shape eyeing Strike with shyness, excitement and curiosity. She moved closer, grinning with mischief, her perfect white teeth inside a pink-lipped mouth, her clear, round and chubby face a welcome good morning.

“Evie, what’re you up to, you sneaky girl?” Strike inquired with a smirk. Evelyn giggled, and jumped to his bed, hugging him, never minding his sweat, and kissing his cheek.

“Good morning Uncle Corm,” said Evelyn with her perky soft voice. Strike, who had never been good with children, had to admit he had a soft spot with Evelyn Herbert, who seemed to have a crush on him, or so her parents joked. She enjoyed his company and he enjoyed hers, and she didn’t make him play dolls and things that were embarrassing to him, happy instead with having him read to her for hours, even in Latin.

“Good morning Evie,” Strike hugged her tight, like every morning, and kissed the top of her hear, full of short, wavy hair, so blonde it was nearly white, like her parents’. She was already dressed for the day, with a little dress, a jumper, thick winter leotards and thick socks to walk around the house, which wasn’t surprising. Evie’s father liked to go on morning runs or bicycling, and if she woke up early, she got to join him, and even go buy the paper together.

“Daddy made pancakes!” she added excitedly, watching him for a reaction. When his stomach grumbled in automatic, she giggled and jumped off the bed, yelling “race you!”

“You better run, young girl!” it was for nothing, really, but they did the same routine nearly every morning, for the five weeks he’d been staying with the Herberts in their house in Melody Road, Wandsworth. Strike took a deep breath, moved the duvet, and chilled with the temperature difference before putting on his prosthetic lower right leg, his long pyjama trousers which he didn’t sleep with, because then he’d have to remove them to comfortably put on his prosthesis, and it got annoying, and his slippers. He put on his dressing gown, which was draped over the corner armchair, and moved to the adjacent bathroom to wash his face, pee, have some mouthwash as he liked to do even before breakfast, and try to make his perpetually messy, short and thick dark curls a bit decent. He’d been growing a thick beard, because it was warm in winter and he was a Southerner who hated being cold, and so he forewent shaving and walked outside.

It was a short walk down the corridor to the kitchen-dining room, already buzzing with life. The two grey cats, Ossie and Ricky, were perched on kitchen cabinets as if afraid to join in the fun, Nick Herbert, fully dressed as Strike had imagined, made breakfast, and his wife, in her pyjamas, dressing gown, with her glasses on and a mug of tea in front, sat at the dining table breastfeeding their ten month old Leo, while reading the newspaper her husband had brought. Evie, full of energy as always, jumped up and down to the chant of ‘pancakes’, making her parents snigger at times.

“Morning,” said Strike, adverting his eyes for the half breast of his oldest best friend, exposed by her son’s lazy sucking.

“Good morning Corm,” Ilsa said cheerfully looking up at him. Her long blonde hair was braided, and as usual, she was one of the most beautiful women Strike had ever seen. He’d never felt himself attracted to her that way, as they were pretty much siblings raised close, but he had eyes in his face.

“Morning Oggy!” Nick grinned, and set two full plates on the table, his daughter bringing a third, before Nick retrieved a forth, along with tea for Nick and Strike and juice for Evelyn. “Come on Evelyn, sweetie, sit with me, let’s eat.”

“Thanks Nick, I’m starved and this looks amazing,” said Strike gratefully, sitting with them next to his female best friend, the others in front, because it was Nick’s turn to get Evelyn, easily distractable, to focus and eat her breakfast. “I thought you worked today?”

“Yes, I have A&E shift, but I don’t have to go just yet. Get the whole New Year’s Eve madness, but at least I had Christmas.”

“But Daddy! Why d’you have to go?” Evelyn pouted, and Strike could see in Nick’s blue eyes for his daughter, he was being tempted to calling in sick, and it wasn’t a first. “I want you to come to the party…” she said sadly.

“Uncle Corm will party with you, Daddy has to make sure everyone makes it back home safe from their own parties tonight,” said Nick calmly. “People get sick every day of the year honey, even on holidays, and we need every doctor we can get.”

Nick Herbert was a GP, and he worked at Chelsea & Westminster Hospital, which received an impressive intake of people with ethylic comas on New Year’s Eve, and sometimes, it fell on Nick to deal with it, as he had night A&E shifts a few times a month, dividing holidays, which, as he and Ilsa liked to see from a positive point of view, made the annual decisions of whether to celebrate this and that in London, with his side of the family, or in St Mawes, with hers, much easier. This year, however, was an exception, because it was Strike’s sister’s first holiday since she’d divorced earlier in the year, with her boyfriend and two sons, and their uncle, aunt and younger brother were coming from St Mawes, so they would be joining them in Bromley, at Lucy’s house. Nick’s parents would celebrate with the rest of his extended family, and they would be getting the peace and quiet of Bromley instead of the loud, fireworks-filled Hackney or Wandsworth, having in count Strike, Evelyn and Leo absolutely despised fireworks. It was the first thing Strike and his godchildren could agree on.

“Don’t worry sweetheart, we’ll see Daddy tomorrow and we’ll have him for a whole week all to ourselves,” Ilsa reminded their daughter, who cheered up.

“Yay!”

Nick chuckled at their daughter’s antics.

“All right, but let’s eat now, Evie. We have to focus, remember? Then, we’ll spend the whole week partying with everyone.”

Strike had to admit the day’s incoming party cheered him up considerably. After thirteen years on-and-off dating and a two-year long engagement, his relationship with his most serious girlfriend, Charlotte Campbell, had come to an end earlier in the month. Kicked out of the flat she, a rich socialite, had paid and they’d shared, Strike had had no other choice but to retreat to the Herberts, because his office was freezing cold and the festivities weren’t a good moment to begin renting.

The Herberts’ house wasn’t so bad, anyway. Nick was his best friend since they were teenagers, their friendship two decades old now, and his friendship to Ilsa was over three decades now. Nick even liked him a little further because if it wasn’t for Strike, he wouldn’t have known who he fondly called the love of his life, and so grateful the couple were that Strike had been the best man at their wedding, the godfather of his children, and Evelyn received the same middle name as Strike, Blue. At the house, it was like a frat house with two kids, and it was enjoyable, actually.

“Be very careful, all right?” Ilsa murmured serious a couple hours later, as her husband kissed her and Leo goodbye. She always got tense and anxious whenever he had night shifts on international party nights, afraid he’d had a car accident or someone would try to stab him, as everyone was insanely crazy and drunk and high on nights like that. She knew it well, she was a crime lawyer, and on January her firm would be full of cases related to that, but now she was on holiday.

“I know, I love you,” said Nick with a soft smile.

“I love you too.”

“And you!” Nick threw his daughter to the air, making her laugh, before wrapping her in his arms. “Be a good girl and help Mummy with your brother, okay Princess?”

“’kay Daddy,” Evelyn kissed his clean-shaven cheek soundly, and he kissed her chubby pink cheek too. “Love you.”

“Love you too beautiful, I’ll miss you,” Nick squeezed her and let her go, grabbing his coat and briefcase. He was a little nervous about leaving his wife with two little children, one of them a newborn.

“Don’t worry Nick,” said Strike, walking him to the door. “I’ll look after the family.”

“Thanks mate, I can always count on you. Have fun tonight for me, uh?”

“Will do, you be careful,” Strike saw him out to the car, Evelyn waving her father goodbye from her place between Strike’s legs, and then they closed the door, keeping the freezing cold outside.

In a matter of hours, Strike saw himself absently watching the Disney film Frozen, a favourite of Evelyn’s, sitting on the sofa while his god daughter sang and danced to ‘Let it go’ and he cradled Leo, who had been crying up until his warm arms curled around him, his blonde hair now pointing all directions, his face asleep. It had taken his best friends four years and two miscarriages to finally carry a successful pregnancy to term, and once Evelyn had happened, Leo had come as the happiest accident, before they’d begun planning, as they’d been dreading another miscarriage.

Now, the happy mother was showering and getting fancy for the night, and had shyly asked Strike to look after the kids for her, which he’d done happily. It was the least he could do with all the hospitality his friends always offered him with open arms.

The recurrent dream he had had, wasn’t about to leave his brain, but Evelyn’s off-tune singing distracted him. The lyrics ‘ _The wind is howling like this swirling storm inside… Couldn't keep it in, heaven knows I've tried. Don't let them in, don't let them see, be the good girl you always have to be, conceal, don't feel, don't let them know… Well, now they know… Let it go, let it go, can't hold it back any more… Let it go, let it go, turn away and slam the door. I don't care what they're going to say, let the storm rage on… The cold never bothered me anyway_ ’ seemed to speak wonders to him today, making his mind drift to his ex, Charlotte. Charlotte Campbell had been, of all his girlfriends, which admittedly weren’t a long list, the craziest, the snobbiest, the most insane, the most absolutely gorgeous, and the greatest liar, manipulator and toxic person, the only one not one of his friends or relatives had been able to stand, so much was the hatred towards her that Nick and Ilsa, who loved Strike with all their souls and never meddled with his life, had begged him not to bring her to their house, not to let her close to their children, and not to marry her. And still, Strike had wanted to be her husband, had been head over heels in love with her, still was, and missed her deeply, in an odd way. She was, he told himself, like alcohol to an alcoholic. Something that could be such a relief, such a distraction from darkness, such a welcome joy, but that then could equally bring you to root in hell, wasted in the toxic poison, alone and distanced from everyone he loved.

This wasn’t even their first break-up, but it was the final one, each one having only broken things further until they had completely screwed it up. The final straw, Strike realized ironically watching his youngest godson sleep nuzzled against his chest, had been a baby.

Strike had never wanted to be a father. One, because there were certain poisons in his family he didn’t want more people to inherit, two, because he had never been too good with children, not even when he was a child and preferred adult company, and three, because he’d had such a role of caretaker his whole life, that he longed for independence, for not having to take care of a helpless kid… even if he married a helpless, needy, insane Charlotte. He also found himself frequently annoyed by children, but after learning everybody found themselves annoyed by then now and then, he felt that wasn’t a reason not to have them. He did like kids, after all, he just was terrible with them, and frequently annoyed by their existence. Children seemed to have bullied him his whole childhood, and to still despise him, generally, which didn’t help. But Charlotte hadn’t wanted them either, and had absolutely hated them to the point of being cruel to his nephews at times, if he and their mother weren’t looking… but they’d tell him later. And then, on Valentine’s Day, as Strike found himself surprisingly overjoyed by the call that had announced he had a new godson, his whole attention that day drifting to that happy event, Charlotte had suddenly blurted out she was pregnant, two months, she said. She didn’t seem pregnant, didn’t behave pregnant, didn’t show him the stick, and didn’t go to a single appointment, so he only had her word for it, and he believed her.

It was a massive shock, but Charlotte had seemed happy, saying that kid, being his, would be her most favourite one, wanting to have it, so Strike had undergone eight weeks of therapy and several months of self-talking until he reached the point where he embraced fatherhood and became happy and excited about it, even when Charlotte didn’t really seem more pregnant, and still, didn’t provide any evidence, when she was reaching supposedly half her pregnancy. Only then, with him truly excited, with him thinking she was right, this was a child they’d love, and he was going to teach him Latin, have fun like with Evelyn, read to him or her, and make him or her a mini detective and then, perhaps, make his business a family one, she had suddenly announced a miscarriage, providing zero evidence that the pregnancy had ever happened. And Strike had felt surprisingly shattered.

Charlotte had then turned a nightmare, saying she had PTSD and sobbing her eyes out imitating behaviour they’d seen on Ilsa years before the two times she’d miscarried, but in Charlotte’s case, it had been attention seeking, and she’d gotten it. Strike had been all about her, stopping his work for months to be there for her, even as his newly made agency began to crumble. And then, in November, Strike had consulted with Ilsa, and asked him, not without a few glasses of wine, to talk to him about her miscarriages and pregnancies, until he’d realized what his friends hadn’t wanted to say; that it was all fake. Charlotte’s version was the film version… it had nothing to do with real life. Many things just didn’t fit, and Nick, his doctor friend, only corroborated it. He thought Charlotte had some sort of psychotic disorder. But Strike had exploded and, just days later, ended everything with Charlotte. He couldn’t possibly forgive something like that. Now, her number was blocked and deleted though he knew it by memory, and he hoped to move on.

“Uncle Corm,” Evelyn brought him out of his thoughts, her little hands on his knees. “Who are we partying with tonight?”

“Uhm…” Strike cleared his throat. “Well, your grandparents are coming, Grandpa David and Grandma Joyce, and your Aunt Meredith, Uncle Fabian, and your cousin, Gideon,” Gideon was the only nephew Nick and Ilsa had, the year-old son of Ilsa’s big sister, who lived in London too. “And we’re going to be at my sister Lucy’s house, remember Aunt Lucy?”

“Yes, she’s got blue eyes like me!”

“That’s right, good memory. Well, so Lucy will be there, and she’s got a boyfriend called Wyatt. And she also has two sons you know, but might not remember, Jack, who’s four, almost your age, and Adam, who’s third birthday just passed I believe, he’s your age.”

“I’m three,” she lifted her three fingers.

“Yes, I think he’s your same age,” he wasn’t good at remembering his nephews’ birthdays, in all honesty, even when he and Lucy, three years apart, were quite close. “And aside from them, Uncle Ted, Aunt Joan and Lucy and I’s little brother Harry will be there too.”

“Don’t remember Uncle Harry,” Evelyn frowned, thoughtful.

“Sure you do, he was here last summer. A tall, slim teenager, with my hair but less curly and in nice waves, and blue eyes. Got a bit of stubble.”

“Ah yes!” Evelyn nodded, smiling. “I know!”

“Good, now keep enjoying that film, okay? Let’s try to be quiet so Leo doesn’t wake up.” Although if he doesn’t wake up now, Strike thought dryly, he was going to be up like an owl all night. He was like Ilsa during her Law school years.

At last, Ilsa appeared at the door, beautiful with her soft make-up, her hair loose in waves, and a velvet deep blue, long dress, heels not on quite yet. Her glasses were gone, substituted by contacts.

“Mummy, you’re so pretty like Elsa!” exclaimed Evelyn, amazed, running to her. Ilsa smiled and picked her up, kissing her cheek.

“Thanks sweetheart!”

“Where are your glasses?” asked Evelyn.

“Took them off, I’m wearing contacts. They’re a transparent thing you put in the eyes and then it works like glasses, to see well. Cormoran, thanks for looking after them, mind helping me at the kitchen when you’re ready?”

“No problem,” Strike got up, putting Leo in the little cradling swing in the sitting room. “I’ll shower quickly and put on my suit, and be right back.”

“Thanks Corm.”

“And you look beautiful, hope you’ve sent Nick a pic,” he added with a smirk as he passed her, earning a little elbow.

Strike returned twenty minutes later, jacket draped over his arm, neck shaven, and a jumper over his shirt and tie.

“Uncle Corm, you’re the handsomest,” said Evelyn with a grin as he came into the kitchen while she helped her mother fill Tupperwares with the food Ilsa, Strike and Nick had prepared to bring tonight. Ilsa was now selecting wine while soothing Leo, who was whimpering a little in the wrap carrier Ilsa had put on to hold him while busying her hands on the food.

“Thanks Evie,” Strike half smiled. “Right, what can I do Ilsa?”

“If you can put this chicken and the pie in the Tupperwares and put them in the boot of my car in the garage, I can go get the kids ready.”

“You’ve got it. Off you go Evie, head upstairs with Mummy to get ready, I’ll deal with this.”

When half an hour later they were in the car, cats fed and locked in the kitchen, all doors and windows locked twice, security alarms on, and Evelyn in a pretty blue dress and Leo with a cute new jumper and a bib that had a bow-tie printed, Strike was immensely grateful for three things. One, that Evelyn behaved in a car, two, that Ilsa drove a comfortable Volkswagen, and three, that Ilsa was a hell of a driver, because he’d been struggling with getting back in vehicles for the over year and a half that had passed since the explosion that had taken his leg.

“Okay, so we’re ready to go,” said Ilsa, adjusting the rear view mirror to try and include her children in the photograph. “I trust you remember where your sister lives?” she added teasing Strike in the copilot seat, as she fiddled with her GPS.

“Last time I went by train, so…” Strike shrugged.

Ilsa smirked, rolling eyes, and began to drive the half an hour drive to Gilbert Road in Bromley North, with Evelyn humming Frozen songs in the back, sitting next to her brother in her car seat.

“So,” said Ilsa after a while of silence, once she exited Wandsworth, “any news from that tosser of Greg?”

“Hopefully no,” said Strike, adjusting his tie. “Lucy said something of him threatening with suing because the boys don’t want to see him and he says it’s Lucy’s doing, that she’s brainwashing them.”

“Better that than admit he put his hands on his then three year old son, uh?” Ilsa sighed, shaking her head in disapproval. “Yes, I heard something of that. Lucy cited his violence as grounds for divorce, and she’s asked me some advice with this… I’m just hoping he doesn’t try anything over the holidays, now that the boys are finally looking calm. They were so tense, poor things. And Wyatt treats them right, does he?”

“Yes, I think so. Told Jack to call me if he sniffed anything bad,” said Strike. “But Wyatt was in the Army Medical Corps, then he was a paramedic, now he’s a writer, he knows and respects Lucy’s gift… he seems like a nice guy, right?”

“You’d feel it if he wasn’t, wouldn’t you?”

“Well it doesn’t really work like that, you know that,” said Strike. “If it was so easy, I would’ve known Greg wasn’t a good guy from day one. Hell, Luce would’ve known, if she wasn’t so stubborn to pretend to be normal when we aren’t. Calling what Jack sees invisible friends… my arse.”

Ilsa chuckled, shaking her head.

“Remember you used to call them the friendly neighbours when we were little?”

“Yes,” Strike nodded. “Then I saw you grandmother at her funeral and we stopped fooling around.”

“Oh we were so mortified,” Ilsa remembered. “Good thing she passed to the other side. You know, you and Nick would make a good team, he tries to keep them alive and you deal with them if they’re gone.”

“Nope, just because I am a medium it doesn’t mean I’m going to work as such. I’m a private investigator, I do enough helping the dead find justice and you know what? They pay like shit,” Ilsa sniggered. “Speaking of paranormal things though… I’ve been having the weirdest recurrent dream.”

“About death?”

“I thought so at first, now I think she’s still alive.”

“She?”

“It’s a woman, young, strawberry blonde hair, blue grey eyes… tall, curvaceous, quite beautiful actually. It’s always the same, the IED explosion, and between the pieces of it all and the chaos… she stands as if oblivious to everything else, asking me to help her, before someone…” mindful of Evelyn, he simply gestured as if slicing his throat, which Ilsa saw.

“Wait, so this time you may be able to prevent a death instead of dealing with the post death chaos?” Ilsa frowned.

“Perhaps, don’t know. I’ve never seen that woman in my life, I’m pretty sure.”

“But when was the last time you got to prevent something from happening?”

“The IED, but even then, I had seconds to react, lost half a leg. If this is happening, and it’s been going for many nights now… means she’s still alive, she still needs me.”

“And her time is running.”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps you could ask help to… you know… the dead. They can go anywhere, right? Perhaps they can tell you where to find her.”

“Perhaps. Anyway, today’s holiday, tomorrow office.”

“Tomorrow? Not gonna get drunk?”

“Of course I’m gonna get drunk, but y’know, later I can still work some. The more alcohol the easier those little shits become to be seen.”

Ilsa smiled in amusement, her eyes on the road. At least now it was party night, and nothing was gonna stop them.

  
  



	2. What lies beyond

**Chapter 2: What lies beyond.**

Lucy’s house was buzzing with energy. She had light brown hair, because her father was blonde and her mother had had the hair as dark as Strike, Harry and Lucy’s own boys. Her eyes, however, were blue, like her father’s, while Strike’s were dark green, like their mother’s, and Harry’s were dark blue. Strike was actually the younger copy of their Uncle Ted, with the thick dark curls and the dark eyes, the big, broad size, round jaws and surly looks, even if both were soft inside, while Lucy looked surprisingly like Aunt Joan, even though they weren’t biologically related, and was also short and a bit rounder. Meanwhile, Harry, their fourteen-year-old brother, was some kind of odd mix, tall, but quite slim and narrow.

The other big difference between the three was that Harry and Lucy both called Ted and Joan Dad and Mum, with Lucy only calling Ted by name when her biological father was present, to avoid confusion. Strike understood it coming from Harry; he’d been almost three years old when their mother, Leda Strike, had been murdered, and he barely remembered her, and his father had been arrested for her murder and was doing life in prison since, and he was three when Ted and Joan adopted him. But Lucy had moved with Ted and Joan when she was twelve, and had never been officially adopted because both her mother and father lived, yet had begun, behind Leda’s back, to call them a second father and mother, considering them surrogate parents, only months after moving permanently with Ted and Joan, and even though her mother had died when she wasn’t eighteen yet, she still had a living father, a living step-mother, and two living younger half siblings on her father’s side. Strike, who like Harry only had Ted and Joan and still didn’t call them Mum or Dad, even when he didn’t call his own father a Dad and when his mother was long dead, always got furiously offended Lucy had ‘substituted’ their mother like that, but now in the holidays he made an effort to chill out.

Still, he found himself quickly in the garden, smoking with his coat on, while the last things were prepared and moved to the dining table for the night.

“Uncle Corm,” he was surprised by the company of his eldest nephew, Jack, who was only four, but tall like a six year old, like Strike had been, with Leda’s softly wavy dark hair, and his own mother’s deep blue eyes. He worshipped Strike, always sought his company, but because it was freezing outside, Strike found himself throwing the fag to the ground and stepping on it quickly before taking Jack, in spite of his heaviness and his leg, in his arms to keep him warm.

“What’s up?” Strike asked, glancing at the boy.

“Why does Mummy say I’ve invisible friends?”

“Because the others can’t see your friends, Jack.”

“Why not?” he asked, confused. “They’re right there,” he pointed to the far of the garden, and Strike turned, his heart dropping to his feet seeing a bunch of children running around. Dead children, “you can see them right?”

“Jack, buddy…” Strike took a deep breath to steady himself and turned to Jack. “I am going to tell you something very serious and very important, and you have to promise me you will not tell anybody, not your Mum, not your best friends, nobody, or I will get very angry at you. Are we clear?” Jack nodded, serious. “Jack, there are some people in our family, like you or me, but not all of us, who have the ability to see people who… died. You know, like Grandma Leda, you know what dying means, right?”

“The heart doesn’t beat and they go to sleep forever, to heaven.”

“Yes, and then we are never supposed to see them again, ever, until we go to heaven too,” Strike stuck with the 4 year-old version. “Except that some people like us, with the ability I’m telling you about, we can see them, but it’s just us. Most people in the world Jack, they can’t, and so they call us crazy, they insult us, they mess with us, which is why is super important that we don’t go around telling people about our friends, that only us can see.”

“So my friends are dead?”

“Unfortunately yes, Jack.”

Jack pouted.

“And how do I know? They look just like me.”

“Sometimes, they may look injured… others, it just doesn’t make sense to have them here. For example, why would a bunch of children just appear in your house? Odd, isn’t it?” he nodded. “Means they’re probably not real. Or an adult you don’t know in your classroom, things like that. You’ll learn to identify things better when you’re older, but in the meantime, you have to keep it our little secret, never talk with strangers, or with someone who you’re getting a bad feeling about, and… learn to say goodbye to your dead friends.”

“But they’re my friends, I don’t want them to go!”

“Don’t you want them to go heaven?” Strike asked softly, and Jack shrugged. “These kids are dead, Jack. They’re here because they don’t know the way to heaven, and their parents are gone, their siblings, their other friends, pets they had. They’re all waiting in heaven. Don’t you want to help me to help them get there?”

After a moment of thought Jack nodded.

“I’ll miss them though.”

“I know… I went through the same when I was little, but then I made living friends, and so will you. You have to focus on the world of the living while you’re alive Jack, or it’ll pass you by. Come,” glancing at the glass door to make sure Lucy wasn’t looking, or anybody else for that matter, Strike took Jack to the kids, that began to say hi and wave at them. “Hello, hello,” Strike set Jack on the ground, keeping a hand on his shoulder, “are you Jack’s friends?”

“Yes,” a little girl with a nasty cut in her head and purple lips nodded, grinning. Strike felt his stomach knot. He never dealt with children. They never sought him.

“Let’s play a game, okay?” said Strike, and the kids nodded. He could begin to see an intense light at the far end of the garden, that wasn’t there before. A light so bright that it grew and grew, beginning to be blinding, and so warm it suddenly seemed like summer. “Do you all see that light?” he pointed to it, and they all nodded. “Does somebody not see it? Okay… let’s make a race. The last one to get there loses, okay? Now three, two… one!” all the kids, including Jack, ran to it laughing, and they all disappeared into it, except for Jack, that went through and nearly crashed with the garden fence. The light disappeared, the coldness returned, and Jack turned around with tears in his eyes and a little pout. Strike felt even sadder, and dropped to his knees, opening his arms so Jack ran into them and began to cry into his chest. Strike understood him, he’d been there. When you’re little and weird and all your best friends who don’t insult you and don’t think you’re weird are dead, and you have to help them go. Leda had done this for him too, when he wasn’t much younger than Jack. “I’m so sorry, Jack,” Strike kissed the top of his head.

“I-I have n-no m-more friends…!” he sobbed sadly.

“I know,” Strike sighed, rubbing his back. “But hey, you’ve got me, Adam, Mummy, Wyatt, all your uncles and aunts, grandpas and grandmas and hey, Evelyn! She’s your friend! Hey…” he separated, rubbing the tears off the whimpering child’s cheeks with his calloused thumbs. “I promise you Jack, those kids are now back home, and when you’re an old man, and eventually you get to go to the light, you’ll see them again, and you’ll play together again. But Evelyn, Adam… they’re here now, they want to play with you, and they’re friends you can keep, like Ilsa was my friend since we were babies, and we’re still friends. Those friendships are hard to build, but the most worth it, you know? And you’re the coolest boy, you’re going to make plenty of friends with time and some effort.”

Jack sniffled and nodded, breathing deep to calm himself.

“Dad didn’t like my friends, he shouted at me for them… but you won’t, right?”

“Of course I won’t, you’re my best boy. Between you and me Jack, your father’s a prick,” Jack snorted a laugh, rubbing his eyes. “Some people will insult you because they don’t understand, but that doesn’t mean you’re weird, or doing something wrong. What we did now didn’t feel wrong, right?”

“Felt good, bringing them home.”

“Exactly. So let’s not tell people who won’t understand, and we can keep enjoying doing good things with nobody meddling and insulting us, okay?”

“Okay. Gonna play with Evie and Adam now.”

“Good idea.”

Jack ran back into the house and Strike walked slowly behind, taking deep breaths to recover from what had just happened, not wanting to think why that little girl had had such a slice on her head, or why she’d gotten lost and separated from her family, or why all those kids had found Jack. He knew the dead felt a pull towards them, realized when they were seen and heard… but it was too soon for that many to be seeking Jack’s help. He was only four.

He had to blink tears off his own eyes, and at last he came in, taking a deep breath like a diver about to get into the water. Inside, the hustle and bustle wasn’t relenting much. They were going to be ten adults, Harry, and five children, so now they were trying to get the five children to eat first. At least one of them was Leo, who had breastfeed and fallen asleep in the bouncer Ilsa had brought and, with Lucy’s blessing, installed in the large dining room, and the other was Gideon, who was still breastfeeding too, and had fallen asleep in the guest room, which Lucy had prepared for the kids, so his parents now took turns to hold the baby monitor and keep an eye on their son. That left Evie, Adam and Jack to be fed, so Lucy sat between her sons and Ilsa with her daughter, keeping them eating. Wyatt, Meredith and Fabian joined them, helping out.

“Not bringing Milady Berserko?” Harry asked his brother, a soda in hand, as they sat on the sofa to watch how the last TV of the year was going. The four elderlies were catching up in the kitchen, the four best friends for many decades.

“We broke up, this time’s final,” said Strike, and Harry’s teasing smirk faded automatically.

“Shit Corm, I’m sorry, what happened?”

“It’s fine… what d’you think? She’s insane, everybody’s said it all the time for years.” Strike realized for the first time that his relationship to Charlotte had been nearly as long as Harry’s life, as Harry had been only a year when the relationship had begun.

“I know but knowing you, something must’ve triggered it, for it to sound so final,” Harry sipped off his soda. “What was it?”

“Well…” Strike sighed, shrugging. “She faked a pregnancy, then a miscarriage. All of it was fake.”

“Was it?” Harry’s eyes widened. “How are you so sure?”

“Because I spoke with Ilsa and Nick. Ilsa had two miscarriages, before getting pregnant with Evie.”

“Shit…”

“They’d given up and then in came Evelyn… they know the real thing pretty well. They hadn’t taken it kindly, when Charlotte began saying… obviously seeing her play pretend with something so serious that had hurt them so much, wasn’t easy. So eventually I asked them, how were they so sure she was lying, and they told me how it should’ve been if she’d been pregnant, and what miscarriages actually are like… and I realized Charlotte had sold me the Hollywood version. None of it was real, and it was the last straw. She knew I didn’t want a child and she faked a pregnancy to tie me, make sure we’d set a wedding date… and then when it became too hard to fake, she faked a miscarriage to get all my attention in her, get me to take a leave off work and all… just when I had begun wanting that baby, Harry. Eight weeks of therapy and…” Strike shook his head and took a large gulp of his beer. “She fucking played me.”

“I’m so sorry, brother,” Harry patted his shoulder. “In the positive side, now you can focus on women who deserve you. That nutter was always too little for you, Corm.”

“Thanks, Harry, I appreciate it,” Strike nodded. “Hey, on a separate thought… I wanted to talk to you because Lucy… well, you know she doesn’t like what we can do.”

“Mean speaking with Casper? Gotcha.”

“I’ve been dreaming of a woman who asks me to help her before someone slits her throat, for weeks, always the same dream every night. Have you had that?”

“No. Is she someone you know?”

“No, so it makes me anxious I don’t know how to help her.”

“Then the spirits will work to help you,” Harry pointed out. “They always do, don’t they?”

As the clock began to tick, all the kids were knocked out of play before the adults even sat on the sofa for drinks and countdown. Adam and Jack fell asleep in their room, Gideon and Leo were in the guest room, and Evelyn had somehow managed to fall asleep curled in her mother’s lap with a blanket, not bugging even with the adult talk and noise. The three piece sitting room accommodated everyone. The four elderly adults occupied one sofa, Fabian, Mer, Lucy and Wyatt another, and Strike, Ilsa and Harry the other, all a little tipsy and with drinks.

“What a pity poor Nick had to work,” Joan commented, smiling softly at Ilsa, who nodded, smiling sadly.

“At least we get the mini Nicks,” Ilsa joked in reference to her very own children.

“It’s so nice to be nearly all of us here together,” said Lucy happily. “The boys have been dying for tonight, can’t believe they fell asleep so easily after the naps they had.”

“They got so overexcited, right?” Joyce Waterstone chuckled. “Well take advantage now, when they get to Harry’s age they won’t let you sleep going out to party all night.”

“Oh, I’m hoping to get mini Harrys, hanging here with the old people,” Lucy teased her brother with a smile.

“Hey, my friends are all partying in Falmouth and I’m a family guy,” Harry shrugged.

“Aw, how sweet! Smart of you Harry, take advantage before everyone goes off on their own traditions,” Meredith told him. “And how’s the agency going, Corm?”

Strike’s Private Investigations Agency had only opened last June.

“It’s uh…” Strike shrugged. “Could be worse. But it’s only just opened, it’ll pick up next year.”

“That’s the attitude Corm, you’ll see,” Wyatt nodded, positive. “Next year is going to be the best one for everyone, I bet, Charlotte and Greg gone, everyone healthy, everyone happily employed… no reason why next year shouldn’t be perfect.”

“Oh, God hears you Wyatt,” said Joan, nodding.

“I’ll settle with good health and my husband not getting the worst night shifts,” said Ilsa.

“I’ll settle with a girlfriend,” said Harry, making them laugh.

“I’ll settle with my agency picking up,” added Strike.

“Well if we’re going to throw wishes into the air…” Lucy shrugged. “I guess I’ll settle with good health… and my ex-husband getting forbidden by the judge from seeing the boys.”

“Oh I’ll join that,” Wyatt nodded.

“I want good health, healthy economics, and no flu or colds for the rest of the summer,” said Fabian, and Meredith chuckled.

“That’s a good one honey. I think I’ll join that one. Ted?”

“I’ll settle with everyone getting whatever good stuff they want most.”

“Of course he had to be the moral one,” Harry smirked.

“I like that too,” Joan nodded, grinning. “All my men and my ladies happy.”

“And no floods,” added David.

“And no tragedies,” finished Joyce. “Yes, this is going to be a good year.”

Shortly after New Year’s Eve, Harry warned Strike not to go into the dining room because Lucy and Wyatt were heavily making out, David was putting Evelyn in the guest room, Ilsa was on the phone with Nick, and the others stayed in the sitting room. Strike was grabbing a fourth beer in the kitchen, happy he didn’t have to drive, when the doorbell rang, so he went to open.

“You waiting for someone Luce?” he bellowed into the house as he went to the corridor.

“No,” Lucy appeared, curious.

“Then stay back,” Strike walked to the door and as he looked into the peephole, his blood boiled. “Greg, go home. You’re not welcomed here.”

“Greg?” Lucy hissed, and Wyatt came too, looking ready to punch someone, his lips swollen from kissing Lucy so much.

“I’ll go guard the boys,” said Wyatt, storming upstairs.

“THEY’RE MY CHILDREN!” Greg bellowed loudly, and in the background, the TV was turned on as the guests picked on the sound. “I DEMAND TO SEE THEM, OR I’LL BRING THE POLICE HERE!”

“What is going on?” Ilsa appeared, with the others, and they stood at the end of the corridor, watching the door with mistrust.

“Greg,” Lucy had gone pale, and Greg was now hammering the door. “Wyatt went to the kids, make sure they’re okay no matter what. Corm, I’ll call the police…”

“No need, we’ll deal with the bastard,” Ted came ahead.

“Stay back Ted, I’ve got this,” Strike opened the door and Greg punched it open, and launched at Strike.

“KNIFE!” Strike heard a female warning in his ear, and he moved his hand right on time to grab Greg’s wrist hard. Greg was in his early thirties, and as a quantity surveyor, he was fit and strong, but Strike was a veteran and he’d been boxing through his teens and the army. He quickly squeezed Greg’s wrist up in the air so hard he shouted and the knife dropped, while his free hand quickly hammered one, two, three punches on Greg’s face, his nose cracking and his face covered in blood, the back of his head hitting the wall by the door.

Strike had spoken calmly and collectedly to his uncle, but he was furious, seeing red, remembering the bruises he’d seen on his sister before finally convincing her to leave him. He now seized Greg grabbing two fistfuls of the collar of his shirt, and in spite of his lack of half a leg, having strong arms and torso as often happened when one compensated the loss of lower limbs, Strike lifted Greg up in the air until his feet dangled, slamming the back of his head and back against the brick wall as he pinned him there, his nose flaring as he hissed like a bull. Meanwhile, Greg could only grab onto Strike’s wrists, trying to breathe, coughing blood, groaning in pain.

Greg was wearing a nice suit, smelled of alcohol, and had evidently been partying. His brown hair was cropped short, his grey eyes half closed in pain.

“You fuckin’ scum,” Greg mumbled, “I will sue you, you’re never leaving pri— OUCH!” Strike had moved his right hand, able to hold him with just the left, and sunk his fist on Greg’s stomach.

“Cormoran!” Lucy became altered. “Stop this, please! Don’t get in his level.”

“I’m not, I don’t hit children, not so funny when you go against men your size, uh?” Strike snarled at Greg. “Give me one reason not to kill you right here right now. One, and you can go.”

“I’ll sue you! All of you!”

“Wrong answer,” Strike drew his right fist back, and slammed it against Greg’s cheek, this time feeling it break beneath his hand, which made Greg howl and cry out in pain.

“Cormoran! Dad, do something!” Lucy urged Ted.

“Corm!” Joan called his attention. “Let him go, sweetie.”

But Strike was enjoying seeing Greg squirm, trying to scape, bleeding, too much.

“Corm, let him go,” said Ted softly placing a hand on his shoulder. “I want to punch him too, but it’s not worth scaring the boys. Imagine…”

“Right,” Strike nodded, and moved his right hand to squeeze Greg’s throat, making him gasp for air. “Leave my sister alone. Leave Adam and Jack alone. Never, ever, dare to come near this house, our family, our friends… or I will personally,” he squeezed his throat a little harder, growling. “Grab my gun and hunt you down. Trust me Greg, when I’m done with you, nobody will ever find you. And when I start with you, you’ll be begging I was done. So get out. No more threats, no more lawsuits, no more games, if I find out you’re bothering my people again, you’ll wish you were dead, and if I’m dead, my friends will carry on. Have I made myself understood?!” Greg began to get blue, and Strike shook him. “Didn’t you hear me?!”

“Y-yes!” Greg gasped. “Understood! I-I’ll leave, forever… please…” Strike loosened his hold so he could breath properly, and Greg coughed for air, dripping blood over his shirt. His left eye was beginning to close from the swelling. “Please… I’m s-sorry… I won’t bother again…”

“You better. Ted open the door, please,” Ted held the door open and Strike lifted Greg from his shirt in one hand, and threw him outside the house like a sack of potatoes. Ted locked the door after himself, and Lucy began crying in earnest. “Luce… come here…” Strike brought her to his arms.

“Why y’all,” Lucy sobbed out, punching his hard chest, “have to,” she punctuated each word slamming her hands angrily on his chest, “be so violent! I hate you!” but then she crumbled in his arms, holding onto him, crying.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” Strike held her tight, kissing the top of her head. A trot down the stairs and Wyatt appeared, pale.

“The children are all right… Lucy, what happened? Did he hurt you?!”

“No, Cormoran gave him a piece of his own medicine,” said Ted, calming Wyatt down. “She’s just sick of the whole situation, that’s all, let’s give her space.”

Wyatt looked like seeing his girlfriend so upset shattered his soul in pieces, but he sighed and nodded, following Ted and the others into the house and leaving Lucy and Strike alone. Strike sighed deeply, holding Lucy a little tighter. He was sorry for many things, but punching Greg until his hand lost feeling wasn’t one of them. Greg had had it coming, and being the one to hit him had felt like an honour. He was however sorry for many other things. For not protecting Lucy properly when Harry’s father had been violent towards her, forcing her to run to St Mawes, for joining the army right after Leda’s death and spending ten years gone not paying enough attention to his sister, for not having done something to stop Lucy from marrying Greg, for not having seen the problem and protected her and the boys before any harm was actually done. Above all, he was sorry that, hadn’t his leg been blown up the year before, he might have never realized what Greg was doing, and Greg might’ve killed someone by then.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you believe in ghosts?


	3. The shadows

**Chapter 3: The shadows.**

It had taken an hour to fully calm Lucy down, and after a bit longer, Ilsa, Strike, Evelyn and Leo had finally left. Now Evelyn slept in her chair where her grandfather had accommodated her, and Leo next to her, where his grandmother had tucked him. Ilsa drove into the dark, at minimum speed to make sure she could dodge any drunk driver, and Strike tried not to hiss as he covered his right hand and wrist in the ice bags Lucy and Wyatt had given him.

“What were you thinking, Cormoran?” Ilsa admonished softly. “Say he appears dead for whatever reason, you’ll be the number one suspect. Say you end up in prison, that he tells the police… what will Lucy do then, uh? How can you help them then, if you’re in prison?”

“You’d get me out.”

“I can’t do magic.”

“Look, I know it was irresponsible,” Strike puffed. “But you didn’t see Lucy’s bruises, Ilsa. Last time, when I had to kick the bastard out of the house _in crutches_ , because he nearly killed Lucy, and you didn’t hear how Jack called me on the phone, how terrified he was… you didn’t see the bruises he had either. Can you blame me, for wanting to kill the bloody bastard? Good riddance!”

“I know, Corm—,”

“You don’t fucking—,”

“But I do,” Ilsa cut him more sternly. “I’m a criminal lawyer, what do you think I see weekly at court, Cormoran? Things like this and worse. Listen to me, for once in your bloody life, you have to control yourself, you have to, because those boys need you and your sister needs you, you just saw how she is deep inside, what she’s repressing trying to keep it together and be strong for her sons… she’s shattered. Imagine what you’ll do to her ending up in prison. Won’t look like nothing outside, but inside… you’d better have shot her, I’d do less harm.”

Strike took a deep breath, nodding. He knew she was right.

“I know… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap.”

“I know. You’ve just had a hard month, got a lot of anger pent-up inside. Just deep breaths, okay?” the rain was drumming against the windows again. “Deep breaths… we’re going to go to sleep now, relax… and tomorrow it’ll be a new day, a new year, new start.”

“It’s five in the morning Ilsa, technically it is 2017 already.”

“Well it doesn’t count until you wake up.”

He smiled fondly at her, nodding.

“I had to teach Jack to help his first ghosts cross to the other side tonight.”

“Really? When?”

“Before dinner. He had these… like twelve children, Ilsa, about his age, in the garden,” explained Strike, and Ilsa tensed. “I’ve never seen so many ghost children. And they looked… well, some looked all right, but others were covered in blood. I don’t even know how they found Jack, but Jack didn’t want to let them go, said he has no more friends… in school it’s like it was for me, people call him names. I only had you and Dave, remember? And he’s got no one, he felt so alone… he cried when we had to help them cross. He understood, he knows they have to go on, to their families, but… broke his heart. And honestly, seeing those kids… mine broke a little too. As used as I am to death, as much as I’ve seen in the army… I’ve never seen something like this, tonight.”

“Oh Corm… I’m sorry, I don’t know how… It’d kill me, for sure,” Ilsa squeezed his hand gently. “Is there anything I…?”

“No, just a good sleep will help. I just worry for Jack, that’s all. Harry and Lucy, they can’t see them, it’s weaker in them. Lucy gets the odd dreams and visions… Harry also hears them sometimes, but Jack and I can see them, sometimes, aside from all else. Like Mum… and it drove her to LSD and alcohol and brought me to the army and Jack… he’s so sensitive…”

“He’ll be all right. He has a good mentor, like you had Leda, despite her faults.”

“I hope so,” Strike nodded.

They fell in silence for a moment, and then Ilsa spoke.

“Corm… you’ve told me there’s a light, right? And it’s bright and warm, and when we die, we go there. D’you know what’s in the other side?”

“No, I can’t come,” said Strike. “Y’know I’m not religious, so I don’t like calling it heaven, only with Jack ‘cause it’s easier for him that way for now… but I know whatever it is, it’s good. Feels warm, feels… peaceful. When I’ve been close, I could feel like there was no pain, like it was a healing energy that filled my chest and was utterly comforting. And I hear voices, all mixed together, like whispers… I think the people in that side try to call the lost souls that remain here.”

“And what do you think happens if… if there’s no one to call them?” Ilsa asked. “Say their families are alive…”

“There’ll be someone,” Strike nodded. “I don’t know, angels perhaps. There’s always someone.”

“D’you think there was someone there for my children too?”

Strike looked at her and saw her hands tense at the wheel, her eyes full of tears, fixed on the road. She was talking of the two kids she should’ve had before Evelyn. Another girl and another boy, they were supposed to be named Eowyn and Noah. Their remains were buried under a young tree planted in their garden.

“Ilsa, pull over,” Strike said firmly, and Ilsa nodded, pulling over immediately and keeping the lights so other cars could see them.

She took a deep breath, rubbing her eyes. They’d never talked about it, Strike had been at the army then, even when he’d come running when he’d heard the news, and Ilsa and Nick had been too devastated, twice. One pregnancy had been four months on, the other, five. It had been particularly hard, specially for Ilsa, who’d been surprised twice, once at work and another doing grocery shopping, and found herself in public restrooms, picking the bloody ball that their child was in her hands, catching it before it fell into the toilet. The details of that hadn’t gotten to Strike’s ears until years later, through Lucy.

“I’m sorry… I’m…”

“It’s fine,” Strike reached out to take her hand. “Look, here’s what I know, okay? I never saw Eowyn and Noah. I never felt them, never heard them cry, all the times I’ve been at your house,” Ilsa nodded, crying quietly. “And I’ve been at their grave a bunch of times too, and nothing. And no dreams, no visions, absolutely nothing, just peace, Ilsa. So I can only imagine they are in the light,” he squeezed her hand softly, “and there’s no pain there. No concept of time, so they’re not wondering where you are perpetually. The light is warm, is comforting, is bright… it’s not a scary, lonely place. Perhaps your grandparents are taking care of them, or Nick’s… or that sister Nick was supposed to have and was also lost. Whatever it is, when the time comes for you to go there too, hopefully in a hundred years… you’ll have them back, and they will know you, I know that,” A knot set in his throat, and his eyes filled with tears for the second time that day, because he could feel all the pain emanating from Ilsa, and how upset she was. How, like Lucy, she just pushed it all in every day, tried not to think of her eldest children, to carry on, to be there for her younger ones.

Strike left the car to open Ilsa’s door and bring her in for a tight hug. It was freezing cold, but they hugged until she calmed down, his eyes closed against her hair. Only when the cries subsided, did Strike notice how quiet it had gotten. He couldn’t hear the crickets, the birds, the animals, the trees or the rain. It had even stopped raining. They were at a narrow road, Ilsa having parked on the pavement, that went through some rugby fields in Dulwich, there ought to be more noise, more cars, at least fireworks.

Feeling chills, Strike opened his eyes and froze. The road had lines of tall, robust trees at each side, and tall fences of the fields, but in the total darkness illuminated by the car, he could see white faces and hands of black figures, hundreds, appearing behind the trees. He hadn’t seen things like that many times, and it was never good. The faces had no noses, eyes, nothing, and they were whispering louder each time.

“Ilsa, let’s go,” Strike said, and something in her tone kicked Ilsa into gear, hurrying back in her car.

It wasn’t until they were home, the children in bed and the crib, and Strike had checked every door and window several times, that Ilsa dared to ask, as they lied together in pyjamas on her bed, the cats at the feet of it.

“What did you see? You went pale.”

“I’m not sure, I’ve only seen them very few times, in dark isolated places. Dark figures, like shadows, with white, skeletal hands and faces with no features, like erased. Stuff for the nightmares.”

“Jesus. What are they? Ghosts?”

“I’m not sure,” Strike repeated, but before he could talk more, they heard the front door open, close, lock again, steps, and then Nick appeared at the door, surprised to see them both. “You see him too, right?”

“Yes,” Ilsa chuckled, rushing to kiss her husband. “Hi, what’re you doing here so early?”

“It’s nearly seven,” Nick smiled, kissing her back. “End of night shift. What are you guys up to?” Ilsa and Strike told him what had just happened. “Oh, so we’re up for scary ghost stories? All right, let me get my pyjamas on, and popcorn.”

At last, the three snuggled in the marital bed, Ilsa in the middle, all of them with popcorn bowls.

“The first time I saw them I was like… five, and Mum and I had been walking around the countryside at dusk, in St Mawes. We heard the entire place turn into total quiet, and then they began to appear at the far distance, whispering things. Mum turned a lighter on, shouted at them to go away, and they shrieked, vanished,” said Strike. “She told me they’re creatures of darkness who try to bring vulnerable living souls to their side.”

“They can kill?” Nick scowled. They were used to hearing these things from Strike, and Ilsa and him took him seriously.

“They can create such an amount of bad energy in one spot, that bad stuff happens. Car accidents, bizarre psychotic outbreaks when someone suddenly turns evil and kills… the bizarre stuff you see on TV, no one can explain. When we were in the squats in Brixton, I was eight, and I came this close to one of those. There were some addicts slumped in the dirt, in the dark… saw one of those putting their claws on one of the faces. The figure then sensed me, turned to me, began to come closer… felt the warmth leave the room. Then my Mum appeared out of the blue, holding Lucy in one arm and a lantern in her other hand, and same thing, made the figure go. Then there was Afghanistan,” said Strike. “When I woke up at the field hospital after the explosion… I remember seeing them roaming the tents, then I lost consciousness, but they were right there. All over the place. But there were also figures of light, near every bed, as if keeping us safe. Strangest thing.”

“But the car had the lights on tonight,” Ilsa pointed out. “If they run away from the light… why didn’t they?”

“I think they could hide behind the trees, but they didn’t try to come closer,” said Strike. “I think they feel drawn to misery, because when we’re miserable we left our guard down, the soul is vulnerable. The night with my Mum in Cornwall, we’d been near a spot where later I found out a car accident had ended a whole family, bad energy. The squat in Brixton, full of people in misery, vulnerable, and so was the hospital… And we were too attractive. Two little babies perfectly vulnerable, guards down, you and I feeling upset.”

“I’m never stopping the car anywhere in the middle of the night,” Ilsa decided.

“Yep, me neither,” Nick wrapped an arm around his wife. “D’you think they can come into the home, Oggy?”

“No. Mum was always clear there, they can’t come into homes. Flats, squats, houses… yes. But not consolidated homes.”

“What’s the difference?” inquired Nick.

“A home is full of love,” said Strike simply, with a shrug. “That makes them impenetrable. Too much light, even when it’s dark.”

“That sounds so beautiful, so cheesy, so poetic, that I can’t believe it came from your lips,” said Ilsa teasingly. Nick sniggered and Strike rolled eyes with half a smile.

“Believe me, if I had a choice not to deal with this crap, I’d take it,” Strike got up, holding back a yawn. “Anyway, goodnight lovebirds.”

“Night night Oggy!”

The first day of the new year was a Sunday, and so Strike only went to the office to pick the mail, and spend the day being lazy with the family, recovering from the partying, but on Monday morning he left the Herberts to go to work after a week long holiday he’d granted himself.

Strike owned a little office in the second floor of Denmark Street, in Soho, a decrepit, small space where clients weren’t expected. Strike had just been in the inner office, checking the mail, when he felt the inner office door close behind him with a loud bang. Startled, specially with the windows closed, Strike turned around and his blood froze as he saw one of the dark figures advancing towards him. Strike had never had aggressive encounters with spirits, but he immediately felt cold, faint, weak… he rushed to the window, opening it wide.

“GO! YOU’RE NOT WELCOMED HERE!” he roared into the figure, that shrieked, and retreated into the darkness. It’s shrieks sounded like sounds from beyond, terrifying, sending chills to him, even when he didn’t consider himself easy to scare. Strike had to admit he was terrified, not having more sources of light. “GO!” but the figure climbed up the dark corner, up to the ceiling like a giant spider, and suddenly the windows shut closed, the blinds falling shut. Just when the room was in total darkness, Strike heard the shriek again, saw the blurry melted white face right in front of his, its mouth opening toothless, full of saliva, and Strike felt it inhale his soul.

His chest constricted in hard pain, he felt frozen cold, and he collapsed, just as he heard his mother scream.

  
  



End file.
